Setting the Table

 February 7, 2021

“So shall my word be that goes forth from my mouth; it shall not return to me void, but it shall accomplish what I please, and it shall prosper in the thing for which I sent it” (Isaiah 55:11). If there is any comfort and encouragement for the preacher, it is this. God’s Word will accomplish what he intends. Sometimes the spoken word has a power that is evident to all who hear; at other times, it seems like it leaves the mouth flat and goes downhill from there. If I do the work and give it my best, God promises to accomplish not what I intend, but what he intends. 

More than forty years ago, I sat through the only preaching course I was to take in seminary. Most of my seminary experience was less than memorable, but this class was worth the price of the admission. One of the things we learned was that any given sermon is a feeding; sitting at the table of the Word. Just as in the physical realm, we cannot ingest all our nourishment in a single setting; we must return to the table again and again. “Don’t try to give them everything you’ve got at a single setting. They’ll be back. Give them the spiritual meal they need for the day. Save the rest for next time. We grow a meal at a time.”

This morning, I set the table as best I could, and invited the congregation to feast upon the goodness of God. Together, we then shared the meal Christ set before us at the Communion Table. We sang, prayed, received, then prayed and sang some more. As at any meal, it’s possible that some didn’t like the peas or carrots, and passed on them. Others filled their plates. It isn’t the job of the chef or the waiter to make sure everyone fills up and then cleans up their plate. It’s our job to set the table. It’s now in the hands of God who knows our hearts and ensures the success of the Word he has spoken.

Dreams

February 6, 2021

The dreams vary; the themes don’t. I’m six years old and thoroughly embarrassed to be standing in the hall in first grade, wearing only my pajamas. Or I’m in high school, trying to remember my locker combination, or which hall it’s in. Or I’m in college, and cannot remember the syllabus or which courses I’m taking, what day they’re offered, or which building they’re in. I’m clearly in over my head; I’m lost and scared, wondering how I’m ever going to get out of this mess.

These dreams often woke me up on a Saturday night. The morning would find me standing in the pulpit, doing what I was called to do, as best I knew how, often with a stomach churning with anxiety. Pastors are called to do the impossible. We hold in our hands the life-transforming Word of God, but we ourselves are powerless to change a human heart. I don’t miss the tension, the anxiety, the sense that I’m on the verge of a calamitous disaster.

Today I officiated at a funeral; tomorrow, I preach in Cassadaga. I’m not completely out of practice, so it’s not a matter of preparation or knowledge of how to do it. It’s a matter of the heart. Jeremiah said it well: “The heart is deceitful above all things, and desperately wicked.” Mine is no exception, and if I could be sure I were preaching from a holy heart, with the purest of motives, I could step into that pulpit with confidence. But there is always that nagging thought—“What makes you think you can do this? Just who do you think you are?” The fact is, I am unworthy (as John the Baptist said) to even untie Jesus’ shoelaces. The Message is pure and holy, and powerful to bring conviction and redemption. The messenger is none of those things, but he has a job to do.

Years ago, a tall lanky farmer and I stood one summer evening, leaning against his car by the side of the road in front of my house. He kicked at the gravel, looked up at the stars, and said, “You know Jim, God could raise better servants from the stones beneath our feet, but he chose us. Isn’t that amazing?” The amazement has never left me, and the task humbles me. Only Christ is worthy, but in an incomprehensible twist of grace, he saw this unworthy person and said, “he is worth it,” before coming to earth to die on a cross for my sins. If I were unsure of the efficacy of that one solitary death on a Roman cross, I wouldn’t dare attempt what I expect to do tomorrow. Though I am unworthy, he considered me worth it all, and to top it all off, has offered me the privilege of telling others. 

Maybe that dream will visit me again, but I’m not taking my cues from dreams. The Word of God is a much more secure foundation, so I’m building on the promises guaranteed by God himself. It’s going to be a good day.

 

Breathe

 February 5, 2021

Two events seem to have been on everyone’s mind over the past year. Many are still obsessed with them: The election, and COVID. I’m amazed by the number of people on both sides of the aisle who cannot get past the elections. I understand those who believe the election was stolen. Even though the courts and media have assured us that the elections were fair, it’s hard to fathom the contrast between the election results and the level of enthusiasm (or lack thereof) generated by the candidates last year. The near universal antipathy of the media towards our former president is something I’ve never witnessed before, and their kid glove treatment of our current president is startling by comparison.

What is strange to me though is the inability of many ordinary people on the left to detach themselves from Trump. Years ago, a woman came into my office in a rage. She had been divorced from her husband for a number of years, but he had done something that sent her into fits. He wasn’t stalking her, wasn’t harming her in any way; he was just doing what he had always done, and it was driving her crazy. After listening to her vent for about fifteen minutes, I broke into her diatribe.

“Do you want to get back together?” I asked somewhat meekly.

“NO! I NEVER WANT TO SEE HIM AGAIN!” Her voice could be heard a couple rooms over. 

“Then why are you carrying him around with you everywhere you go?” She quieted down.

It’s not uncommon for people to emotionally shackle themselves to the very person they want to be rid of. They’ve bound themselves with chains stronger than steel to the very source of their pain. I can understand this when a marriage breaks apart, but what pleasure does anyone get from binding themselves to someone they’ve never even met? 

The other event is the ongoing COVID debacle that has paralyzed the entire world and is often more crippling elsewhere than here. Which leads me to tonight’s musing.

I love Willie Nelson. His nasally voice and not too shabby guitar playing, coupled with lyrics and melodies that reach deep inside, have intrigued me for years. “Blue Eyes Crying in the Rain” is but one example of his mastery of a song. I’ve never been much of a concert-goer, but I’ve seen Willie numerous times, often with my daughter-in-law. I’ve never been disappointed. He recently recorded a song the lyrics of which I can’t remember, but the title is worth the price of the album. “Bad Breath is Better than No Breath at All.” 

Willie would not be my first choice as a theologian or philosopher, isn’t the greatest example of good behavior, but this phrase is a good reminder that as bad as we may believe things are, we are still here, and that’s good. I am thankful every day I wake up, thankful that I am alive, able to work, and have enough of my wits about me to appreciate and enjoy the life I’ve been given. If this past year has you down, try looking at it from a different angle. You might be pleasantly surprised to learn that for you too, bad breath is better than no breath at all.

Hearing Clearly

 February 4, 2021

I’m not hearing very well this evening. A couple weeks ago, my right hearing aid started snapping and popping, fading in and out, so I called my audiologist to see what could be done about it. After a couple fits and starts, I got a call today saying my replacement had come in. I immediately hopped in my truck and headed to town, but when I got there, I was told they wanted not just the right, but also the left aid so they could pair them properly. I wasn’t expecting that, but told that they should be able to do it before the end of the day, I reluctantly left both devices at the office. Let me add here that my hearing aids are rechargeable; a fact that is important to this narrative.

Needless to say, the hearing aids are still there, and everything sounds like I have a pillow over my head. Linda is quite understanding, repeating herself without disgust when I don’t hear what she’s saying. They told me my devices will be ready tomorrow. I hope so; I have work tomorrow for which I’ll need to be able to hear. 

It occurs to me that my physical situation is a reflection of my spiritual life. Sin leaves us all unable to hear the voice of God. Psalm 19 tells us that “The heavens declare the glory of God...Day unto day utters speech...there is no speech nor language where their voice is not heard.” God is speaking, but too often, we are deaf to his voice. In the Gospels, we read of Jesus opening the ears of the deaf, which are pictures of what he came to do in the realm of the spirit. When I confessed Jesus as my Savior and Lord, he opened my ears so I was for the first time in my life, able to hear his words of forgiveness, guidance, and correction. 

Sadly, there are times when I stop listening. God doesn’t stop talking, but deliberate sin, inattention, distractions prevent me from hearing what he has to say. His voice is muffled. When my spiritual hearing aids stop working, I have to pay special attention if I am to hear him. It’s much easier if I keep them charged each day. Like the little devices that fit into my ears, things happen that are outside my control, making it necessary to go back to the Maker to get things put right. Tomorrow, I hope to do so with my physical hearing aids. Fortunately, I don’t have to wait to get my spiritual hearing aids up and running. All it takes is repentance, confession, and prayer. God is always more ready to speak than I am to listen, so I know if I just give him the time and my attention, I’ll hear him, loud and clear. 

Coffee

 February 3, 2021

I’m listening to my friend Willie as he talks about coffee. He’s explaining how they process it

In Cuba, using ancient hand operated machines and time-honored methods. Cuba’s governmental restrictions coupled with the already tenuous Cuban economy has made life even more difficult for average Cubans, who are no strangers to hard times. Pray for Cuba. We are inconvenienced; they are desperate.

It’s the coffee itself that interests me tonight. Folklore tells us that coffee originated in Ethiopia, supposedly by accident, by a shepherd. I have often wondered what prompted someone to dry the beans, roast and crush them, dump them in boiling water and then throw away the grounds. Whatever the motive, I’m glad someone thought to do this. I love my coffee, the stronger, the better. 

It occurs to me that coffee is a lot like life. We have dry times, times when we go through the fire. We get crushed and ground almost to dust before being dumped into hot water. If it takes all that to bring out the flavor of the bean, it takes no less to bring out the best in us. Without all that, there’s no coffee. Without all that, we cannot give off the aroma and flavor of the life God has placed within us. It’s the difficulties, the trials that reveal the quality of the bean. I can’t say that I like the process, but I do like the end result, and am grateful that God never stops grinding, putting me through the fire, and tossing me into hot water. It’s the only way I can be the aroma that wakes someone up from the sleep of sin to the morning light of Christ.

Vicarious

February 2, 2021

“It’s not the same.” My friend Cameron and I were meeting for coffee for the first time in nearly a year. We used to meet at Starbucks, but when COVID hit, they shut down their indoor space, and with all the new regulations piled on top of regular ministry matters, he got real busy in a hurry. Today was to me like a draft of cold water to a man dying of thirst. He couldn’t spare the time we both really wanted, but as we caught up on our families, and how we were handling what has been dumped in our laps, we naturally talked about how Christian ministry has been impacted by it.

It’s not been all bad; difficulties help us recognize those parts of life and work that can or cannot weather storms. Often the daily routines mask weaknesses that are only revealed through stress. Any civil engineer understands that the steel components of a bridge need to be stressed to the breaking point so the project doesn’t collapse under normal use. This past year, the Engineer has tested us. We’ve learned what needs to be strengthened, and what needs to be cast aside.

We talked about virtual worship. When Linda and I were quarantined, we watched Park church’s service on TV. It’s not the same. God wired us to need one another. Staring at a screen, even singing along, cannot replace the camaraderie and fellowship of face to face gatherings, even if we must “mask up” and social distance. And yet this is what many are choosing to do. Some stay home due to health reasons. Some stay home for the health of others. Unfortunately, too many are staying home either because of fear or because it’s easier. They can lounge around in their pajamas, sipping their coffee, listen to the music and sermon, and call it good. But it’s not. The human soul was designed for an intimacy that cannot be obtained watching a screen. This may sound a bit radical, but vicarious worship via a screen is not far removed from vicarious sex via a pornographic website. It feels good, but isolates and hardens the soul.

I’m not trying to condemn anyone. There are legitimate reasons for staying home, but I suspect they are less common than what we’re seeing. Meeting today with my friend drove home to me once more how important our times together are. I drank deeply of Christian fellowship this morning, and am so thankful for it.

 

Holy Ground

 February 1, 2021

For me, it all starts with a text. “Pastor, would you be available for a service on...?” The names and dates change, but the reality is the same. Someone has died, the funeral director called, and once more I’ve been invited to step into a holy place. 

Being retired, and with the years that implies, I don’t get many calls these days to officiate at weddings or baptisms. It’s understandable; it’s a generational thing. There’s not so many of my generation tying the knot; for my generation, the knot of life has loosened, and it’s my job to pick up all the loose ends and weave them into a proper memorial, and to offer hope. It really is a sacred calling, and one I’ve never taken lightly. 

Funerals have always made me nervous. I search for the right words, the right stories, the right Scriptures that I hope will offer comfort, strength, guidance, and hope, as people navigate one of the most difficult challenges of life. In some situations, it’s easy to step into a minefield of conflicting emotions as people try to make sense of their loss. It’s not always that way, but these months of COVID restrictions have presented unprecedented challenges as families who last year made the difficult decision to place mom or dad in a nursing home now have to say goodbye to loved ones they haven’t been able to see or touch for months. They tried to do what is best, and have been robbed of months of even basic human contact.

This is the second time in a week I’ve gotten that text from our local director. My heart always sinks when it comes in, for most of them are people I’ve known for more than thirty years. These aren’t strangers, faceless numbers, but people I’ve talked with, shared meals with, prayed with. My mind is filled with vivid pictures of living, breathing people. The circle slowly shrinks, and I grieve too, those whose voice I’ll not hear again. 

Ultimately though, it’s not about me. It’s all about those left behind. I’ve often said at funerals that it’s the folks in the front row who are at the epicenter of the blast, and it’s up to those sitting further back to come to their rescue, to call and visit, and let them know they aren’t alone in this dark journey. It’s too easy to fade away from the graveside, leaving the family clutching handkerchiefs and dabbing at tears. After the service, it’s suddenly over, but not for those in the front row. So I remind myself to call. And pray. The One who gave his only Son understands, weeps too, and offers the comfort of his presence through the presence of people who love and remember.